


Madeleine Takes a Stand

by Nemainofthewater



Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: Antigone's love of fancy sauces, Don’t copy to another site, Eric chapman's mysterious past, Family, Food, Food Fights, Gen, Georgie's great at everything, Humour, Madeleine fixes it, Rudyard's competitive streak, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Rudyard and Antigone Funn run a funeral home in Piffling Vale. It used to be the only one. It isn’t any more. Ever since Eric Chapman arrived on the island business hasn’t been good. The Funns are down to their last wizened carrot and the proceeds for my book (Memoirs of a Funeral Mouse, available in all good bookstores) can only stretch so far… something has to be done.
Relationships: Eric Chapman & Antigone Funn, Eric Chapman & Georgie Crusoe, Eric Chapman & Madeleine & Georgie Crusoe & Rudyard Funn & Antigone Funn, Eric Chapman & Rudyard Funn
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Madeleine Takes a Stand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Casylum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casylum/gifts).



> Happy holidays Casylum! I hope that you like it :)

_Rudyard and Antigone Funn run a funeral home in Piffling Vale. It used to be the only one. It isn’t any more. Ever since Eric Chapman arrived on the island business hasn’t been good. The Funns are down to their last wizened carrot and the proceeds for my book (Memoirs of a Funeral Mouse, available in all good bookstores) can only stretch so far… something has to be done._

Eric wakes with a start, heart pounding in his chest. He sits bolt upright, hand automatically reaching beneath his pillow for the gun that isn’t there. That hasn’t been there for a long time. There’s a shadow across the room. He squints at it, but the neon lights of the newly built casino (“Responsible fun for all the family!”) are too bright, casting the figure into even more shadow. He mentally makes a note to do something about that: maybe complementary blackout curtains for every funeral at _Chapman’s_? The shadowed figure clears their throat noisily and he stops mentally drafting plans for SmartWindowsTM (“Sleep like the dead!”) and politely pays attention. It wouldn’t do to be rude: not everyone’s got his level of experience with assassinations. Or blackmail. Whatever this turns out to be.

“Hello?” he says. “Is there something I can help you with? I’m afraid that we’re closed at the moment, mandatory working hours etc etc, but the bar doesn’t shut for another-” he looks out the windows and runs some quick calculations “-two hours and I’m sure that Javier can help you out! Wonderful chap, Javier, makes the best Manhattan this side of the Atlantic. I met him in Argentina. That was a long time ago, though.”

The shadow moves closer and closer, and despite himself Eric feels a frisson of fear run through him. He holds himself as still as possible, ready for an attack that-

-never comes.

“Madeleine?” he says as the shadow resolves itself into the shape of a small mouse. He recognises her instantly: even if the other mice at _Chapman’s_ hadn’t been politely shown to the cheese bar two levels down (“For all your dairy needs!”) the wire-framed spectacles and notebook (made of old, repurposed stamps) and pen give her away instantly.

“What are you doing here?”

She disappears for a moment and Eric can hear a faint scratching as she climbs up the side of his bed, running nimbly through the hills and creases of his duvet until she’s standing imperiously on his headboard and staring at him over the top of her glasses. Eric instinctively reaches out a hand as he’s seen Rudyard do and she scrambles on, squeaking at him until he lifts his hand up to his face to stare at her.

“…” she says.

“Sorry?”

“!”

“Now hold on!”

“!!”

Eric frowns and looks down, unable to meet her eyes. He can’t deny what Madeleine is saying, no matter how much he wants to. It isn’t his fault that the town loves him! …but it is true that he hasn’t thought too much about the effects that his presence has had on the Funns other than to feel bemused by their idiosyncrasies. Opening his own funeral house had always been a way to reinvent himself and start again: the actual money that he makes from the business is irrelevant. In fact, he’s actually losing money most of the time as his funerals are huge, lavish affairs that most people can’t afford and he heavily subsidises his various cafés, restaurants, and bookshops. Sometimes he forgets that other people don’t have several fortunes (all under different names) to fall back on, accumulation from a lifetime of… well, that doesn’t matter.

But while he’s been planning the next addition to _Chapman’s_ (he’s thinking an all-inclusive scuba-experience once he manages to get the permits for the shortfin mako sharks), Rudyard and Antigone (and to a lesser extend Madeline) have been trying to live on nothing. That is to say whatever food Madeleine has been able to buy with the proceeds from her book which in real terms means a few wrinkled carrots every now and then.

He’s been so caught up in the exhilaration of his friendly competition with Rudyard that he hasn’t realised that a lot more rides on the outcome of their rivalry than just the bragging rights. It’s… it’s not really his fault. They’re just so _easy_ to tease.

There’s a feeling deep in the pit of Eric’s stomach. It’s black and dark and painful and he hasn’t felt anything like it since he retired and moved to Piffling. He knows it of old. It was the reason for his move, for a chance to feel anything but that black emotion tearing at his guts. It’s shame.

“Thank you for telling me, Madeleine,” he says instead of screaming into his pillow. He gently places her back down on the bed and she gives him one last nod and expectant look before scampering off. He takes a deep breath, fixes a bright smile on his face and swings out of bed. No time for sleep: there’s work that has to be done.

#  
  


“Eric!” Georgie Crusoe says from behind the rickety _Funn Funerals’_ front door. It looks like she’s the only thing stopping it from collapsing into a sad heap of timber and being whisked off to Antigone’s mortuary to be turned into a new, mediocre coffin. “What are you doing here? It’s five in the morning! Antigone’s just gone to bed and Rudyard’s only just woken up.” She squints at him. “What’s the matter with you?”

Rudyard and Antigone Funn have interesting sleeping patterns to say the least. Antigone’s sleep schedule is not entirely dissimilar to a university student on their first year away from home when the barriers of ‘bed-time’ have most definitely been lifted and they are the masters of their own fate, for better or for worse (definitely for worse). Her sleeping habits had improved somewhat when she had become co-owner of the funeral parlour, but over the past few months had regressed proportionally with the decline in business.

Rudyard, on the other hand, is the personification of that most dreaded of people: a morning person. It’s one of the few things that he and Eric have in common, along with their occupation as funeral director and their frankly idiotic competitive streak. In fact, last August the both of them had decided to see who could stay up the longest culminating in neither them sleeping for over 72 hours and then keeling over mid-argument at _Chapman’s_ café (“Keep the caffeine coming!”) where they lay snoring for three hours before anyone thought to look for them.

“Perfect timing then,” Chapman says, ignoring Georgie’s question. It’s true that he hasn’t had enough time since Madeleine’s late-night visit to actually sleep, and that he’s had quite a few late nights what with opening up the new bowling alley which necessitated actually digging under the foundations for more space. Not impossible, but a little tricky despite the fact that he’d done that before. Although that was a long time ago and under vastly different circumstances. There were fewer explosions this time.

He lifts his arms to show off his offerings and says: “Can I come in then?”

Georgie scowls. “No,” she says, although she does hesitate, looking briefly tempted by the freshly baked pain au chocolat steaming in the December morning. “You’ll have to come back- how about never?”

“Squeak!”

“Madeleine?” Georgie says, “Are you sure?”

“ _Squeak_.”

“Fine,” she says, wavering in the face of Madeleine’s well-reasoned and compelling arguments. She pulls open the door and it slams against the wall, falling off its hinges with a sad _plop_. The two of them stare at it.

“I know a good carpenter-” Eric starts.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Georgie says. “I’m great at fixing doors.” She picks it up carefully and leans it against the wall. They both stare at it, but it doesn’t fall apart, which must be a minor miracle of some kind.

Clearing his throat and wondering whether the Funns would notice if he just…replaced the door one day while they were out, Eric sidles into the house careful not to drop the enormous basket of pastries that he’s cradled in his arms. They’re rather good if he does say so himself: crisp and flaky and made with obscene amounts of butter just as Jean-Pierre, who had taught him years ago, had specified in his small boulangerie in Aix-en-Provence.

There are numerous pain-au-chocolats with dark, bitter chocolate oozing out the ends and finished with just a hint of orange zest. There are spiralling pain-aux-raisins with swollen raisins soaked in apple juice overnight (they were meant to have been part of his breakfast) dotting the rich custard filling like precious jewels. He’s particularly proud of the croissants which wouldn’t look out of place in the fanciest of Parisian bakeries. He hasn’t done anything special to them: no, their simplicity stands as a testament to his precise baking skills. Although, if they aren’t eaten in the next few hours while they’re at their optimal freshness, he might slit them open and stuff them with sweet frangipane before baking them for another twenty minutes, transforming them into sinfully tempting almond croissants.

He carefully sets his burden on the table and, finding one single, chipped plate in the cupboard, starts to arrange them in precise patterns.

“Oi!” says Georgie. “You can’t just come in here and start looking through people’s cupboards. That isn’t right. And I still don’t know what you’re playing at, coming here-”

She stops. Absently, her hand has snagged one of the croissants and, without noticing, she’s taken a large bite out of it. There’s a look of dumbfounded wonder on her face, choirs of angels singing their sacred hosannas straight through her taste buds and down into her stomach. She isn’t swallowing, just allowing the bite of croissant to sit on her tongue. Eric can sympathise. That croissant recipe had affected him the same way the first time he’d tried them, so much so that he’d almost tripped and walked straight into a mine. Not his finest hour.

Finally, after a couple of minutes of silence, Georgie swallows. Licks her lips. And with a look of extreme anguish, puts the croissant back down onto the plate.

“They’re not that good,” she says.

Eric nods genially at her. “That’s actually what I’m here to talk to you about-” he starts to say but is interrupted as Rudyard bursts into the kitchen. He makes his way straight to the kettle (which looks familiar, though Eric politely doesn’t mention the ‘Property of the City Council’ sticker on the back) and switches it on. Georgie rolls her eyes and snatches it away from him, filling it at the sink before putting it back to boil. There is a ritualistic feel the exchange, if rituals ran on exasperated eye rolls.

Rudyard doesn’t seem to notice. Instead his eyes (and nose) are drawn toward the pastries. His hand twitches out before he remembers himself and he snatches it back.

“Antigone!” he shouts, “Antigone, what did I tell you about professionalism? No more French pastries! You’d think we were running a brothel- no professionalism-”

“Actually,” Georgie says, “Chapman brought them.”

“Chapman,” Rudyard hisses, eyes narrowing. “I should have known. What’s he done to them? Poisoned them? Trying to get rid of the competition, eh, Chapman? I should go right over there and give him a piece of my mind!”

He’s addressing the kettle, voice getting louder and louder until he’s shouting at the top of his voice. Georgie is going to get eyestrain at some point if she keeps rolling her eyes. The kettle is impassive.

Eric considers telling Rudyard that he’s actually behind him, no need to shout but ultimately decides against it. He’s sure that Rudyard will notice him eventually and really this is too good to miss.

“These are good,” Antigone says and Eric jumps. He curses loudly as his head makes painful contact with the wall behind him. There are covert operatives who aren’t as good at staying unnoticed as Antigone Funn, and he would know.

“Chapman!” Rudyard yells, spinning around. “How long have you been there?”

Antigone is holding a pain au chocolat in her hands. It’s oozing all over them, but she doesn’t seem to care. Or hasn’t noticed.

“You’ve managed to get the balance between the sweetness of the pastry and the bitterness of the chocolate perfect,” she says. “And is that a hint of orange that I can detect?”

“Antigone!” Rudyard protests. “Don’t encourage him. In fact-” he faces Eric and puffs himself up to his full height, “-I demand that you leave! And take your cursed pastries with you!”

“Hold on,” Eric says. “I just wanted to-” He’s cut off as Rudyard starts to literally push him out of the door. Or the formerly front-door-containing hole. He could resist, of course: he’s proficient in several martial arts (and has the Olympic medals to prove it!) and could incapacitate everyone present, non-lethally, without breaking a sweat. He doesn’t though as he suspects that would be somewhat counterproductive.

Rudyard grabs the door from where it’s innocently leant against the wall and slams it back into place behind him. It quietly falls apart under his hands. He flushes a bright red and turns decisively away, determined to act as though nothing’s wrong.

“Wait-!”

Eric’s basket comes flying out toward his head and he instinctively catches it with only a few of the top pastries falling out and landing on the dusty ground with a sad _plop_.

“Well,” he says to himself, “That could have gone better.”

#

After being unceremoniously kicked out of _Funn Funerals_ , he retreats to _Chapman’s_ to rethink his options. That’s not to say that he’s giving up: of course not! It’ll just be harder than he anticipated. He really shouldn’t have underestimated Rudyard’s stubbornness even in the face of Jean-Pierre’s pastries. He needs time to plan. To do this properly instead of stupidly rushing in with Michelin star-quality pastries and expecting them to be able to smooth everything over.

His spare room, located a few stories above the mortuary and next to the archery room, is currently the home of the miscellaneous trinkets that he can’t quite bear to get rid of but equally has no actual use for, such as his Year 5 English essay (‘A masterful grasp of language at such a young age!’), a handful of medals (including a Victoria Cross), a certificate conferring membership of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, the working computer he had made out of scraps at age 7, a couple of Nobel Prizes, and an Academy award for Sound Editing. Nothing important. Just the detritus that one collects over the years.

After a few hours of hard work everything is boxed up and neatly slotted into place in his basement. He’s also been able to set up the chalkboards and make a start on tacking Rudyard and Antigone’s files (definitely not stolen from MI5) onto the walls, where he can study them in peace and figure out what he has to do. It’ll take at least a day before his cameras and microphones are delivered, even with the SAS acting as his delivery service (finally collecting on a favour owed to him a long time ago) so he takes advantage of the break to start making himself a healthy and nutritious meal in the kitchen. A simple caramelised red onion and goat’s cheese tart with a rocket salad on the side sounds good. Nothing too elaborate.

He walks into the kitchen, faintly humming a symphony he’d composed while clearing out the spare room. He should get some of it down and send it to Steve Reich: he’s a bit rusty but he thinks it has potential.

The pastry is blind baking in the oven and he’s almost finished caramelising the onions when Georgie says: “What are you up to Chapman?”

She’s considerately waited until he’s not holding his (very sharp) knife in his hands, and he’s appreciative. That thing can cut through bones. Although if one is determined and has enough time, most knives fulfil that criteria. He would know.

“Georgie!” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” she snaps. “I came down here in my lunch break to figure out what exactly you’re doing. Because whatever it is? It’s not working.”

Eric opens his mouth in protest. With a sharp gesture, Georgie cuts him off. “And don’t think that I don’t know that you’re coming up with some ridiculously convoluted plan right at this moment that’s going to fail explosively and end up with Rudyard in prison. Again.”

He would have a response to that, he definitely would, but at that moment the faint smell of burnt sugar reaches his nostrils, and, with a yelp, he pulls the saucepan off the heat and vigorously stirs the onions to stop them from sticking. He tips a little red-wine vinegar in that will deglaze the burnt bits and add flavour to the tart.

Georgie reaches over and, maintaining eye contact all the while, takes a large portion of onions and eats them. She doesn’t bother to use a fork to do so, using her hands to scoop up the hot food. Eric winces. Those onions are straight off the heat. Georgie has either got asbestos hands or she’s messing with him. Probably both.

“Not bad,” she says, after a brief pause. Eric isn’t fooled: she exhibited the five markers of contentment while she was chewing. She definitely liked it. Or was canny enough to fool the most seasoned of operatives.

“It’ll taste better when I’ve paired it with the goat’s cheese,” he says instead. “And the bitterness of the rocket really brings out the flavour of the-”

“I don’t care what it brings the flavour out of,” Georgie says. “I care about your stupid plan. And making sure that Rudyard and Antigone don’t get scurvy.”

Eric doesn’t point out that carrots have vitamin C in them and that therefore the Funns’ diet of wizened carrots, while not nutritious in the slightest, actually would prevent them from getting scurvy. That was probably their one benefit. Alongside being high in fibre.

“So what do you suggest?” he asks instead. If Georgie is going to offer to help him, he’s not going to turn it down. Not when she is great at everything, including and not limited to being able to tell the temperature of a freezer just by touching it with her little toe.

(Eric doesn’t want to think about the disaster that was Mrs Smith’s funeral and bequest. He’s still cleaning ice cream out of his funeral parlour.)

Not to mention that the Funn siblings actually seem to _like_ Georgie. And she likes them. Much to the bafflement of most of the island. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Georgie says. “You play on Rudyard’s sense of competitiveness.”

#

Eric hums in contentment, looking around the transformed town hall. He’s really been able to pull off a miracle, if he does say so himself. It’s only 10am and already he can smell the delicious odour of frying onions from by the door, luring people into the building. He nods at Miss Scruple, the source of the smell, and then makes his way further into the building, weaving between the stalls. It turns out that between his charm and Georgie’s efficacy (and access to the Mayor’s schedule) they can pull off a pretty spectacular event.

Agatha Doyle’s stall is about halfway in, and the woman herself is carefully examining her fudge with a magnifying glass to make sure there’s the right ratio of raisins to chocolate. Eric raises a hand in greeting and saunters over. “Enjoying yourself?” he asks.

“Oh yes, Eric,” Agatha replies, straightening and squinting at him, not bothering to put the magnifying glass down. Her eyes are comically large. “What a wonderful idea!” she says. “A nice food festival to showcase the best of the island.”

“I thought so too,” Eric says, “And a wonderful opportunity to celebrate the launch of Piffling Vale’s new community garden, staffed by volunteers and the local youths and free for anyone to harvest from. Not to mention the community cooking lessons, sponsored every Thursday and Sunday and taught by, well-”

He flashes her a wide smile: “Taught by me! And we mustn’t forget the cookery competition in a few hours: the winner gets a year’s supply of groceries, you know. And so does the runner up. Are you planning on entering, Miss Doyle?”

“Me? Oh no,” she says. “I simply don’t have the time to stay on top of all these fancy cooking techniques. Not with keeping up the shop and solving all the murders on the island. And I’m afraid that I didn’t see the sign-up sheet in time.” She takes a step back and finally lowers the magnifying glass. “I shall try not to look too hard at your new community garden Mr Chapman-”

“It’s not mine, several anonymous donors contributed to it, I just organised-”

“-in case we find bodies in there!”

Agatha Doyle titters in amusement at her own joke. Eric’s smile becomes slightly fixed: he’s not going to point out that a community garden would be an incredibly bad place to hide a body and that he can immediately list off at least half a dozen better hiding places. 

“Yes, of course Miss Doyle,” he says instead. “Well, I must be off. I need to check in with my fellow judges and finalise some things for the cooking competition.”

He leaves, feeling remarkably harassed. No matter how good his façade and how oblivious the residents of Piffling Vale he can never quite shake the feeling that she can see right through him.

“Psst! Chapman.” Georgie appears out of nowhere and drags him toward the back of the hall, which has been cordoned off and is currently housing several workstations, pots and pans and piles of ingredients heaped onto the benches.

“What is it?” he asks, rubbing his arms to get the blood circulating again.

“We’ve got a problem,” she says grimly.

“What! How? This plan is foolproof! Antigone and Rudyard love cooking and thanks to the incredibly brief sign-up period-” It had literally been two minutes, the amount of time it had taken for Georgie to slap the sign-up forms in front of the siblings and stand over them, arms crossed, as they filled them out “-there’s no way anybody will be able to actually win against them. Or even compete! How could it have gone wrong already?”

“The Mayor’s dropped out as judge. He almost accidentally sleepwalked off the pier last night. Reverend Wavering managed to wake him up before he unlocked the bedroom door, but he was so surprised to find himself out of bed that he tripped over his shoes. He’s fine, but he’s got a broken leg and Dr Edgeware won’t let him out of the hospital.”

“We’ll just have to find a replacement judge then,” Eric says but Georgie still looks grim.

“I hadn’t finished,” she says. “Mayor Desmond also accidentally handed Lady Templar the sign-up sheet instead of the City Council minutes while I was at lunch. She’s signed up. I told her it was too late, but she just ignored me.”

He curses. While Vivian Templar isn’t particularly good at cooking, she also knows an incredibly large number of Michelin Star chefs and isn’t afraid to capitalise on her status to get what she wants. While they could usually work around that, the fact that they have to find another judge at such short notice, and one who wouldn’t immediately rule in Vivian’s favour, adds another complication to the mix.

“Leave Vivian to me,” he says. “I’ll have a word with her.” He’s already dreading the conversation. Ever since he refused to give her a free funeral, things have been…icy…between them, and this isn’t going to help. At all.

“And that’s not the worst part,” Georgie says.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake! What else has gone wrong?”

“Rudyard said that Antigone’s savoury chocolate and chilli sauce was overpowering the beef.”

Eric groans and gives into temptation, resting his head in his hands. He can feel his incipient headache looming in the distance, ready to pounce.

“Have they both dropped out?” he asks, resigned.

“No. Worse.”

“How can it be any worse?”

“They’ve both decided to run. Against each other.”

He looks at her in despair.

“But it’s meant to be a team competition! And they’ll be cooking the same dish.”

“Yup.”

“We only have enough ingredients for one Beef Wellington.”

“Yup.”

“We only have half an hour until the competition!”

“Yup.”

“Can you stop that?” Eric says. “It’s extremely annoying.”

Georgie shrugs. “There’s no point in stressing about it now. Look, you go and find your ex and make sure she leaves and takes her fancy chef with her. I’ll go and find some more ingredients. And rustle up another judge.”

Neither of them suggests getting the Funns to talk it out. They both know better than that.

#

He finds Vivian standing by the flower stall, chatting to Petunia Bloom.

“Oh! Eric!” Petunia says, spotting him and waving him over. “Such a wonderful idea, this community garden. Although I hope that you’re not planning on planting any flowers…?”

“Of course not, Petunia,” Eric says, banishing all hints of anxiety and smoothly sliding into his public persona. “And even if there are a few edible flowers spotted around, I’m sure that you can agree that it’s just good for public morale! I’m sure that you’d be instrumental in maintaining them in any case, considering your special touch with them. And of course, _Chapman’s_ will always continue buying its flowers from your shop.”

Petunia giggles and blushes. “Oh you charmer you,” she says. “Well, it’s true that I know my way around plants, if I do say so myself! Why, my roses won first prize three years running-”

Eric lets her chatter fade into the background and looks at Vivian. Who’s staring back with one brow raised.

“Eric!” she says, moving closer to him. “What a surprise. Have you come to debrief us for the competition?”

For the first time, he notices the woman standing at her side. She’s tall, aristocratic, and gives the impression of being dressed in chef’s whites. There’s a glint in her eyes that Eric notes with dread: it’s the look of a professional with something to prove.

“Er,” Eric says. “About that-”

“Oh but how rude of me!” Vivian says, cutting him off. “I forgot to introduce my teammate. Eric, this is my cousin Isolda. She knows a bit about cooking and agreed to come help me out. And at such short notice!”

Isolda smiles at him. It isn’t a nice smile. It’s all teeth.

“I’m looking forward to the opportunity to practice my skills,” she says. “It’ll be a nice break from preparing for my third Michelin star.”

Eric smiles back. It’s automatic. He moves closer to the pair, leaning in so that Petunia can’t hear them, and says, “Look, what do you want to drop out of the competition right here, right now, no questions asked?”

Neither woman looks particularly surprised. Instead they look expectant.

“Darling Eric,” Vivian says. “I thought you’d never ask.”

#

Eric manages gets back to the competition area with fifteen minutes to spare having just spent a good ten minutes haggling with Vivian and her cousin. He’s going to have to build a Michelin star restaurant at _Chapman’s_. That isn’t too bad: he’s been planning on opening another restaurant for a few weeks anyway. No, it’s the fact that the community garden is now going to be renamed the ‘Lady Vivian Templar was right on all accounts and Eric Chapman should apologise to her’ community garden that really rankles. Still. Needs must.

With ten minutes to spare Georgie sprints out holding a shopping bag in one hand and a large Tupperware with a hunk of beef in the other. She walks over to one of the empty benches and briskly starts setting out ingredients.

“Where did you get this from?” Eric asks. “I thought that the butchers was closed today-”

“They are,” Georgie says. “But I went over to his stall and he let me have the keys to his shop. I had to prepare the meat myself, but that’s ok. I’m great at dressing beef.” She pauses. “You owe him £50 though,” she says. She stares at him, clearly waiting for a reaction but Eric just shrugs. In the grand scheme of things, £50 isn’t that much and seeing as the contestants get to bring home the food that they make… well, it’s win-win.

If they actually manage to get any food on the plate, he amends, wincing as he sees Rudyard and Antigone enter the enclosed area from different sides. They’re pointedly not looking at each other. Behind him, from the audience’s seats, he can feel Vivian’s amused look burning against the back of his neck.

“Antigone,” Rudyard says stiffly extending a hand that his sister ignores. They are standing as far away from each other as possible while still being in the same room, so Eric isn’t sure how Rudyard expects Antigone to be able to take his hand, but that’s not a thought that he’s going to voice.

“Rudyard,” she replies, equally stiff and clutching a sheaf of handwritten notes to her chest. “I suppose that I should wish you good luck.”

“Hah! I don’t need luck,” he says. “Because my recipe is clearly superior to your-” he sniffs imperiously, “- _deconstructed nonsense_.” The last two words are hissed with a venom commonly reserved for murderers and people who cut queues.

“Excuse me?” Antigone snaps, eyes narrowed. “At least my dish will have some flavour! Some innovation! Not that overcooked mess that you’re passing off as _food_.”

“I’m glad that you could both make it!” Eric says loudly. “And that you’re right on time.”

“On time?” Rudyard repeats incredulously, “I think you’ll find, _Chapman_ , that I am precisely 5 minutes early! The perfect amount of time: not early enough that I’m wasting my time, but not late enough that I risk actually _being late_!”

Eric raises his hands placatingly. “Of course, of course,” he says. “Very er. Sensible of you. Ahem. I suppose we should get started then.” He takes a step back from Rudyard, who has been jabbing him in the chest for emphasis, so he can see both the Funns. “You’ll each have an hour to cook a dish of your choice. At the end of the hour, you’ll present your dish to the judges who are myself, Reverend Wavering and-” he flails, Georgie not having actually got around to telling him who she’d picked for the third judge.

“Madeleine,” Georgie says firmly.

“Madeleine?” Eric says, “Oh right, yes Madeleine! As our special-”

“Our special head judge,” Georgie says.

“….yes…” Eric says, “As our head judge.”

“…” says Madeleine from her perch on Georgie’s shoulder.

“Indeed,” says Eric, wondering when exactly he had lost control of the entire situation. He’s still wondering that half an hour later as he ducks behind a table, narrowly avoiding a plate of mashed suede to the head. Reverend Wavering, who had turned up twenty minutes late and with Mayor Desmond’s sincerest apologies, isn’t so lucky and takes it straight to the face. Blinking, he runs a finger through it and pops it into his mouth.

“Hmm,” he says, “This isn’t bad. Needs a bit of salt though.”

“I told you so!” Antigone cries. “I told you that not everyone likes your bland, under-seasoned, over-boiled-”

“Well at least my dish looks like food!” Rudyard shoots back. “Not-” he gestures wildly at Antigone’s bench, currently covered in pink foam. “Whatever that is!”

“It’s a beetroot emulsion! It’ll pair perfectly with my modern take on Beef Wellington!”

“Beetroot? What sort of monster uses beetroot?”

The pair descend back into squabbles and recriminations, heedless of the numerous pans that are boiling over.

“Well,” Eric says to Madeleine, who is clinging on for dear life to his shoulder. “This is going well.”

The pair of them have drawn a crowd, the majority of Piffling Vale’s inhabitants clustered around the stage, but not too close lest they be hit with the occasional projectile dish. Isolda had already been forced to retreat back a few rows when she had been hit by half a pint of chilli and chocolate savoury sauce, though judging by the look on her face once she’d tasted it and the sultry look she’d shot an oblivious Antigone while sucking the concoction off her fingertips, she hadn’t minded too much.

Eric carefully crawls out from his shelter (Madeleine promptly abandoning him for safety) and toward Georgie, who is slicing a literal mountain of onions at enviable speed, knife flashing.

“How’s it going on your end?” he asks.

“Not bad,” Georgie says, pausing a moment to wipe her streaming eyes, “I’m great at chopping onions.”

“And you’re sure that your onion soup will be worse than both Beef Wellingtons?”

“Positive,” Georgie says. “I haven’t been following a recipe and I spent the last twenty minutes playing Candy Crush on my phone. There’s no way I can win this.”

Eric rescues an unused spoon from her bench and sticks it into Georgie’s bubbling pan. He brings it up to his mouth and tastes it. “Mmmm,” he says involuntarily. The soup is amazing. He could eat it for every meal. He barely stops himself from going back for seconds.

“Georgie,” he says. “This is too good.”

“What?”

“Try it yourself.”

Scowling at him, Georgie grabs another spoon and tastes it herself. She curses. “I forgot I’m great at making onion soup,” she says mournfully, looking into the pan. “There’s only one thing for it.”

Reaching out she takes the container of sea salt and upends it over the pot. The pair of them watch sadly as the white powder is absorbed into the liquid.

“There’s no way that I’m winning now,” Georgie says.

“You do know I have to eat that?”

“Sorry Eric. I forgot.”

She looks unrepentant. He sighs.

“Well, I’d better go and take a look at the others’ dishes. It wouldn’t do to look like I was playing favourites.”

He crawls back across the room until he’s standing near Antigone’s station. He doesn’t stand up. He’s more likely to be caught in the crossfire here; there’s no point in making it easier for them.

“So Antigone,” he says. “How’s it going? Enjoying yourself?”

Antigone has beetroot foam everywhere. In her hair, all over her apron, streaked down her face and slowly dripping off her nose. On the stove, her pressure cooker is making worrying noises, sounding a lot less like a pressure cooker and more like a rocket about to explode. Eric keeps half an eye on it in case he needs to jettison it out the hall. Dangerous things pressure cookers. As he had found out to his detriment a long time ago.

“Fine,” Antigone says. “Everything’s fine.” A blob of foam drips out from her hair and lands on the floor with a sad _plop_. She frowns at it and then, with a strength that Eric hadn’t realised she possessed, takes her bag of flour and flings it toward Rudyard where it hits the back of his head with a satisfying _thump_ and artificially ages him fifty years.

“Yes,” says Eric. “I can see that.”

He reaches forward toward a bubbling pan filled with a glossy brown liquid. “Is this your special sauce then?” he says, curious to see what all the fuss is about-

SMACK

He jerks his hand back, knuckles stinging from where Antigone had whacked him with a wooden spoon.

“If one more person,” she growls, “tries to mess with my sauce-”

There’s an explosion from the other side of the hall and Eric tackles Antigone to the ground, covering her with his body. She goes still underneath him and, from where the bare skin of their faces is touching, he can feel her shudder slightly, skin warming. Strange: maybe she’s more rattled by the explosion than he thought. He supposes that not everyone has experience living in a war zone.

“It’s all right!” Rudyard calls over. “No harm done, I just moved too fast and er. Accidentally set fire to the flour.”

On Antigone’s bench, the pressure cooker finally gives up the ghost. Tired of being ignored, the lid flies off into the aether, splattering Eric with puréed beetroot.

And that’s when the sprinklers turn on.

“I think,” Eric says, sitting up and pushing his rapidly dampening hair out of his face, “that we can safely call this one a tie.”

#

Two hours later, Eric still hasn’t managed to get all the food out of his hair. At this point he’s tempted to just give it up for a lost job. He’s heard good things about the conditioning properties of beetroot. And he’s sure that the flour can’t hurt.

The doorbell rings, filling the house with the melodic sound of Chopin’s Nocturne Op 9 no 2. Eric sighs and slowly gets out of bed despite the fact he would rather just stay there. He’s had a long few days. Running his hand through his hair he winces as it catches on something sticky. Probably the beetroot foam which had proved incredibly hard to shift once it’d set.

Groaning he climbs out of bed and shuffles out to the door. He hasn’t felt this rough since he shut his therapy practise down.

He opens the door with a _thump_.

“What?” he says.

Antigone and Rudyard Funn stare back at him, their arms piled high with food. They are also freshly showered, though the faint pink tinge of Antigone’s pale skin matches the new pink in the gold of Eric’s hair. Does that make him a strawberry blond now? That’s probably how it works.

“Well! I like that,” Rudyard says. “Here we are out of the kindness of our hearts-”

“Shut up Rudyard,” Antigone says, pushing past them both and into Eric’s house. He lets her, looking at Rudyard in confusion. For once, the other man isn’t looking belligerent. Oh, he’s scowling at him (of course) but he’s also got a look of something. On his face. Is that…is that regret?

“That’s right, move over, Chapman,” he orders, also shouldering his way into Eric’s house, “Let the professionals in.”

“What’s going on?” Eric asks. 

Georgie, who has been standing behind the Funns with Madeleine perched on her hat, just shrugs at them.

“They wanted to come over,” she says. “Something about not having enough pans to actually cook anything in their house.”

“!” says Madeleine.

“Yes, fine, they’re also sorry about setting the townhall on fire,” Georgie says, rolling her eyes. “But it’s mostly because you have a better kitchen.”

There’s the faint sound of crashing pans behind him, and he instinctively winces. Some of his dishware was a gift from Michel Roux.

“That dish was already broken when we found it!” come the sound of Rudyard’s voice in the distance. “No, what, what are you doing?” it continue. “I told you that nobody needs that much salt!”

More crashing.

“If I were you, I’d go in and stop them before they burn down your kitchen as well,” Georgie says.

“Er, yes,” Eric says. There’s an involuntary smile tugging at his lips despite the imminent threat of immolation and the chaos that has overtaken his house. “We’d better go do that.”

“We?”

“Well,” Eric says, “I bet you’re great at stopping fires.”

And with that, he ushers them into the house, closing the door firmly behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas, yopumpkinhead and ThebanSacredBand!  
> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


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